I'm visiting one of my closest friends, Katie, who I only see once a year. She's a real estate agent in Muskoka, and very successful. She invited me up to her "cottage" -- which is to say, a sprawling, peaceful, and chicly decorated mansion on a secluded bay, complete with a gourmet kitchen, at least seven bedrooms, a multi-level deck overlooking the water, and a separate bunkie near the boat lift.
Make friends with people who have money. It's pretty neat.
I arrived at Katie's place late last night, after driving north through an intense snowstorm. After a short middle-of-the-night hello and a promise of a better catch-up in the morning, I slept like a rock in an incredibly comfy bed.
But I'm an early riser, so I woke before dawn to a silent blue world. In the kitchen, I made coffee. This lured Katie's son out of bed to join me. Jeff's a grown man, in his late twenties, making him about twenty years younger than me. I guess he's an early riser too.
We were both focused on our phones as we sipped our coffee. Jeff was scrolling whatever social media app is popular these days, while I replied to work emails.
It felt intimate sitting with him at the kitchen table. Illicit even, because we were alone, in the dim quiet, in our pyjamas and bedhead.
I was distracted. It was hard not to be, with this man just a few feet away from me. He was an electrician, and had the capable, nimble fingers that no doubt made him good at his job. He was wearing an R.E.M. concert t-shirt (which he probably called "vintage") and plaid flannel pyjama pants. Light golden hair covered the kind of forearms that make women swoon. He probably played hockey in the local rec league. He seemed comfortable in my presence, just leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out in front of him. I could almost touch him with my toes.
The thoughts running through my mind added to that illicit feeling. I wondered what it would be like to run my fingers through Jeff's rumpled hair. To pull up that soft t-shirt and place my hands on his warm chest. To have his coffee-hot mouth on my breasts. To reach into those flannels and feel his cock respond with undeniable morning need.
To straddle him, right there on the kitchen chair, before the world changed from blue to gold and the quiet intimacy was broken.
A little alarm went off in my brain, reminding me that Jeff was my best friend's son, and therefore completely off-limits. I've known him since he was small, for Christ's sake. He used to call me "Aunt Nika," because he couldn't quite say Annika, my full name. Katie calls me Nika to this day.
I shook off the fantasy with a small sigh, which he heard. He gave me a sweet smile and asked if I wanted more coffee.
